The Trick Is To Keep Breathing
by frostedlemoncoward
Summary: Standalone, angsty Breyton. No longer a prequel because I make things complicated.
1. I think my head is caving in

Title: The Trick Is to Keep Breathing

Pairings: Breyton, Peyton/Other, Brooke/Other

Rating: Uhm. Probably M.

Disclaimer: You know the drill, I'm not the owner or originator or any of that fun stuff.

Summary: Peyton's tired of this dance with Brooke, they're drunk and at a party, and I really do suck at summaries. Apologies.

Spoilers/Warnings: Breyton. That means f/f. So. Y'know.

Author's Notes: No beta so all mistakes are mine.

Ah. So, the title is from the amazing band Garbage, from Version 2.0.

-

You're a quarter past drunk and you have no idea what time it is, where you are or where she is, and you're almost drunk enough to not give a shit. Though we both know the truth is you could never really get to that point, you'd always pass out far before you stop caring.

The walls are thumping and there are boys everywhere, pushing, wanting pieces of you and her that they'll never get. You want to take the pieces of her she gives away, you want her to give them to you but she's always flitting just out of your reach. She isn't yours, and she reminds you of that every chance she gets. You gulp back another drink and push yourself out. Lucas isn't here, nor is Nathan. They couldn't handle this type of party and you're glad of this fact as you grab some so-so guy and shove him against a wall hard. You try to force all of this rage, this pain and lust, this unfulfilled, unrequited love down his throat to buy a few more minutes before you drown and lose this game you both have going.

The alcohol is swishing in your blood, in your head and you know you shouldn't be touching this boy, you shouldn't be tugging his belt off and shoving him into this room. You shouldn't slam the door and you shouldn't be straddling him, rocking your hips. You shouldn't be giving this to anyone but Brooke. She wouldn't accept it though. You know but don't know the reason, it swims around your head just like this room and you know she's scared of losing you, so she'll never let herself have you. You think it's a silly-stupid reason but you can't make her see it any other way.

You're pulling off clothes and throwing them around, using him as a proxy, trying not to think of where Brooke is and what she's doing to who. You're biting his neck and chest just a little too hard and he's groaning and trying half heartedly to push you away just a little, he doesn't want to give up a sure lay and but you don't slow down or stop, you just keeping going lower and harder. Finally with a growl he pushes you up, grabs his clothes and bolts. You sit back and laugh, slip into your clothes and stumble down the hall. You hear Brooke's throaty groan and you shut your eyes and lean against a door, hand on the doorknob. No, no, no, you really shouldn't, oh darling you really shouldn't.

The pressure is getting to you, overwhelming and the bass is climbing, louder and louder and everything's closing in on you as you open the door and see Brooke with second rate knock off of you. It hurts and she can see that. You can see her wavering, unsure how she should act, she could be honest and let you see the fear and embarrassment, or she could act cocky and throw this at you to save herself and maybe you from hurt. She thinks that will work, and you know she does, but you know it won't so you decide to throw her off balance before she can decide whether to let you in and let you really see what's going through her.

"Get out." Your voice is snarl, authoritative and all too scary. The girl who could pass for you at a distance scrambles out, breathing heavily and you know it's a mixture of fear and dying lust and it thrills you. Brooke had looked worried when she backed off her, but by the time she reached the edge of the bed and leaned against the railing, she'd regained her confidence and gone straight to sultry. Your walk to the edge is filled with anger and determination.

"What? Couldn't find someone else to screw?" She's defensive and on the attack, it's easier to hurt you, to chase you away than to deal with this. You laugh and look at her, waiting.

"Two bit tramp looked just like a cheap knock off of me, Brooke. What, you get tired of shopping Gucci and decide to go Hoochie?" She's off the bed and in your personal space and she's oh so hot when she's furious, and the sting of your cheeks is sweet cause you know what sort of nerves you hit. They aren't exactly the nerves you want to play but you'll settle for what you can get. It's why you're here after all. She knows the party drives you crazy, knows you can't stand them and she won't stop going and you won't let her go alone.

"Fuck you." Her voice is snarling all around and the anger and venom are dripping. She didn't want you to push it, but damn it, now you've started it, it was going to be a fucking firework extravaganza.

"Oh jeez, Brooke, would you please? I think it would be really nice, and it might just solve our problems." Your voice is fakely sweet, it's enough to make you sick. She steps closer and she's breathing hard and rough. Her hair is tousled and her cheeks are flushed and you want her. God, do you ever want her.

"Don't push this, Peyton."

"Why not, Brooke? What've I got to loose? What's worse than watching my best friend, the girl I'm in love with, skanking around with a pale imitation of me? Every week a new fake, a different bed. It's a wonder you haven't caught anything." Oh, you've gone too far you think as she lands a nice slap, twirling your head and making you step back a bit. You know all of her weak spots, all of the best ways to hurt her, and you're just gunning for it. Why not, she's been doing it for years now, why not give her a taste of her own medicine? You slap her back, and your blood surges. She tackles you to the floor and you struggle, neither of you can get the upper hand for long and neither of you truly want to hurt the other. Then she's on top and leaning in and the struggle is focused on your lips. Your arms stop struggling and start exploring, even though you've known each other for years, have shared the same bed and clothes this search is new and intoxicating.

Afterwards you both lay in each other's arms, panting. You feel her shift and decide to beat her to the punch, you knew all to well what was coming. You throw her clothes at her, ignoring the hurt look on her face and struggle into yours before storming out of the room. You're down the stairs and shoving through people by the time she's running to catch up with you. You take half a second to take a deep breath and look at the sky before getting in the car and starting it. She opens the door breathlessly and she's barely in when you take off.

"Peyton..." You ignore her, reaching for the radio and cranking it. She sighs and faces forward, getting pissy, but knowing better than to talk to you when you're like this. Your Brooke is a smart girl alright. You screech to a halt in front of her house and wait impatiently, tapping out an irregular beat on the steering wheel. She slams the door when she gets out, still clutching one of her shirts and stalks to her door, not looking back. You speed away, but after you're out of her sight you go a little slower, you're in less of a rush. You turn off the music and drive to Rivercourt to think a bit before heading home and to bed. You can avoid her for the rest of the weekend, ignore her calls, your house or lock it, but Monday was going to be a bitch.


	2. I feel like something's gonna give

Yeah, Monday's a bitch alright. You're both sporting hangover wear and matching bruises and distance. The hangover wear, that's nothing new. Everything else is though, because even with your rough patches, things never got violent, never got that heated. No, everyone knows something is up, but no one is talking to face to face with either of you, you can just hear them, feel their eyes. Lord, who knows? Maybe you are paranoid.

Maybe you aren't. Maybe you aren't.

Either way, you're still sitting next to her in half of your classes, partnered in half of those. Maybe you should have skipped. maybe you should take the week off. Maybe the year. You're sure if you bug him enough, your dad will let you move. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Your head hurts, a double whammy from a lingering hangover, emotional leftovers and all of this turbulence. Yay, Mondays.

You're surprised when a note falls on your desk. You're hunched up, paying as little attention as possible to your surroundings. Of course, it's Brooke, and of course it says that we need to talk. Of course. You shake your head no, adjust in your seat and try to focus on the teacher. Pfh. Of course, of course it's the driest, most boring teacher you have. Of course.

You know she won't give up. You want her to. You sigh. You know it'll only get worse. Frustrated you scribble out a later and show her, hoping she'll let up for awhile.

Now that you're really dreading the end of class, it's flying. You don't know what's worse, the drag or the zoom. You glance up and see the class is almost over. You don't even notice how fast you're tapping your pencil as you try to plan your exit strategy. Do you fake needing to talk to the teacher? Do you bolt out? Do you wait for her? Do you talk now, or later?

You close your eyes and hang your head as your pencil flies out of your hand. Of course. Well. Now you do have to talk to the teacher. Now you just need to hope that she won't wait for you after class.

You mumble off some excuses to the teacher and promise to pay more attention, yada, yada, yada and slip out the door. You lean your head against the wall, not paying attention to the bell, the almost empty halls or the fact that she's on the other side of the doorway, waiting for you. You jump a little when she clears her throat.

"I wasn't going to leave." You blink slowly, looking at her confused.

"I wasn't going to leave, Peyton." You shake your head and turn, walking away.

"Peyton." You take off faster. Hurl yourself in your car and tear out.

No. No, that's not how she meant it or how it's supposed to be. You hide in your room, doors shut, windows locked, music pulsing, legs drawn to chest and hiding in a corner. No.

"Peyton." You don't register your name or the gradual lack of music, don't want to listen to that voice anymore. Don't want to pay attention to the person who just dropped to their knees in front of you. No.

"Peyton, please, look at me." You know she's crying, so you look up, and wish you hadn't, and not just because she knows you're crying now too.

"I wasn't going to leave you there. I wasn't going to cut and run. I don't...I don't want us to be a one night stand. If you do,...but I don't. You were right." You blink slowly, studying her.

"No."

"No?"

"No. No, no, no!" You slam your fists on the floor next to you and bolt up, barely missing her. You pace, in angry, stocky movements in your small room. She grabs you and makes you look her in the eyes.

"You're right, Peyton." She kisses you and you fight it, you fight it hard, but you can never win against her and you know it.

"Brooke..." You breathe out her name, and pull in her scent.

"Brooke." You pull her close, kissing her as deep as you can, trying to destroy all barriers and this is how you end up on the floor, naked and gasping with her, over powering her objections, her fears, steamrolling over the worries and just go.

You catch your breath, your head against her shoulder. You sigh as you sit up, cross your arms, draping them over your knee and study the baseboard. You hear her shift, and you tense, waiting. You don't hear her swallow, but you can feel the tension. You can feel her raise her hand, lose her voice and feel her hand falter. You don't see her close her eyes, or tentatively reach out, and touch your bare back. You shiver and tense at the touch, almost pulling away. She traces light designs on your skin, and you slowly melt. You slowly start to cry. And then she rises as you fall back into her, and she holds you as you cry.

"You're a mess, P. Sawyer." You smile weakly, squeezing her arm.

"But I'm your mess." You don't have to look up to see her beaming smile.

"Damn straight."


End file.
